I remember the day the nurse placed our baby son in my arms. He was so perfect and infinitely precious. But the thing I remember most is that instant when his tiny hand curled around my finger so tightly. My heart was truly his from that instant on.
The feel of his chubby hand in mine lingers, imprinted on my heart from a time when we walked here and there, ran errands, played at the park, strolled by the sea.
As he grew, I still have snapshot memories of his little-boy hands working to grasp a pencil, hold a fishing pole and finding just the right angle to skip a rock. Then there were his teenage hands encircling the gearshift of his first car as he learned to drive.
Closer to adulthood, I can see his hands holding those of his girlfriend, soon to be fiancé and finally wife. No longer would he rush to put his hand in mine, but there were moments when he’d reach out. Even as my son’s hands changed, they stayed the same.
Then came the day when he was grown, a Marine and off to war. I watched that day as he took his rifle in his hands and showed his brothers how expert he was with the weapon. It seemed a part of him, and his fingers moved with a man’s confidence as he explained the different parts of the gun.
When he came home, those hands were older, beginning to show the wear of a life lived in service to his country. But still they reached out for me, now comforting a mother who had missed him so much. I took that comfort with joy, but in those hands I still saw the shadow imprint of those tiny fists that stole my heart so many years ago.
Just as my son’s hands are precious to me, so is my hand infinitely precious to God. He still longs for us to reach out to Him, placing our hands in His while He strolls with us in perfect peace. Only in God does time stand still. No matter where we are in life, we are always his precious children.
